


The Burning of Loneliness

by sadgaydetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Other, Sad Ending, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadgaydetective/pseuds/sadgaydetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hadn't imagined their friendship to end like this, but it was too late to change anything. All he could do was to ultimately say goodbye to his best friend and try to not completely lose himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burning of Loneliness

Everything was quiet. It had taken quite a while, but finally the last mourners said goodbye and left. Sherlock hadn’t thought so many people knew John, but he realized how conceited he had been. He had also realized that John had had a life before Sherlock. Sherlock had known John only for a short fraction of his life. He hadn’t thought about this before. He had known, obviously, but it had never felt like it. Sherlock didn’t like the thought, but to him it had seemed as if both of their lives had only started with their acquaintance.

He could remember this morning so well, when he had spent some more time at St Bart’s just to run into Mike Stamford, a stranger following him. Sherlock had only had to shoot him a quick glance to know the most important information about his future flat mate. Just like with everybody else. But John had had something about him that made Sherlock stop.

Maybe it was the fact that this man was considered his potential flat mate by a man who knew Sherlock at least a bit. To this day he didn’t know what exactly had sparked his interest in John that others didn’t have, but that didn’t change how true it was. And now –

“Ah, brother mine, I thought I would meet you here.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and tried to not let the annoyance about his brother’s presence show.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

Sherlock waited for a gloating, even sneering remark, but he got none. He glanced at Mycroft, but the older brother paid no attention to him. His eyes were glued to the gravestone in front of them, and besides a clenched jaw there was no evidence of Mycroft’s emotions.

For a few moments Mycroft pretended he didn’t hear Sherlock, but just as Sherlock was about to say something rude to Mycroft, he said, “It is a pity, you know? You may think I don’t care about others –quite a true assumption – but this is truly a pity. John Watson was an extraordinary man. Such wasted potential.”

Sherlock didn’t let anything inside him show when he answered, “Is this all you can think of?” He almost spit the last words. “Go to hell, Mycroft.”

Mycroft only sighed and looked around.  “What a strange place. Is this what normal people do? They come here to mourn? I’ve never quite understood.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“They must know they are only visiting the shells of the people they miss. People act so irrational, but that’s what we have to expect, don’t we, Sherlock?” He shook his head and shot a side glance at Sherlock. “Maybe you will finally see how much you benefit from not caring too much about others.”

Sherlock still didn’t react. It didn’t happen often, but right now he was at a loss of words. He opened his mouth and closed it. He didn’t know what to say.

He blinked and tried to focus on the grave stone in front of him. He didn’t know where to look. His jaw was shaking and he pressed his lips together.

“Is … everything alright?” Mycroft stared at his brother.

“Leave, Mycroft. Just leave.”

The older one didn’t bother asking and turned to leave after he looked concernedly at Sherlock one last time.

Sherlock didn’t move. Even when he couldn’t hear Mycroft anymore, he could only stare at the grave stone in front of him, arms crossed behind his back. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what all this meant.

Why was he standing here and stared at these gold letters which he couldn’t connect, which only were riddles for him? On a different day he would have seen how these random letters were supposed to spell out John Watson, but not today, not next week, and maybe never again. It didn’t make sense. It was illogical.

“Why? Why you?”

The words pierced through the silence and vanished as quickly as they had appeared. All they left behind was the missing of answers.

“John. Stop it.”

A sob escaped Sherlock. He could feel the first tears emerging, the salty taste on his lips. Sherlock didn’t cry often, and if he did it usually was a farce to gain information. He could hear the echo of Mycrofts gloating laughter deep in his mind, and he was embarrassed. He wasn’t a child anymore. Tears were for ordinary and weak people only. Tears were for people who possessed a heart.

But John had always thought Sherlock had a heart. John had always believed in Sherlock and helped him when nobody else wanted to take care of him. Sherlock hadn’t deserved John. Sherlock wasn’t entitled to grieve for John, yet he couldn’t stop doing so.

“John.” Sherlock forced himself to maintain is countenance, or at least to try to keep what was left of it. He looked up in the sky and tried to blink away the tears.

“John, I want to apologize. I … I know it is late, but I think you would have wanted me to do it anyway. There’s a lot I want to apologize for, but there’s one thing I ought to say first, since it seems to hold the most importance.”

Sherlock fought with himself. It was incredibly difficult to word the sentences that spun around in his head, but he knew he had to try.

“I was never aware of how much I hurt you when I disappeared – died – for two years. I thought I knew how you felt at that time, but I learned that this isn’t the truth.

You know, in this moment I imagine you standing behind this birch, just like I did. And I want you to come out of your hiding place so badly, and I want you to tell me it was all a trick, that it was payback. But you see there’s the difference between you and I. You are not the same goddamn arse I am.

John, I can’t do this without you.” An ugly snivel escaped Sherlock. The once so stony façade had made room for Sherlock’s desperation.

“I won’t manage this without you. Before I met you, my life was nothing but chaos and a dangerous play with risks. You made everything right; you organized the chaos in my head, even though I never told you.” He held his breath for a second. “But I guess you already knew this. You are better at this than I am, John Watson.”

At the sound of John’s name Sherlock’s chest opened again and his soul screamed in pain, even though that wasn’t logical. When it came to John Watson, Sherlock had long ago stopped trying to think logical.

Sherlock wanted to scream, he wanted to hurl the pain inside his chest into the world so he wasn’t possessed by it anymore. But he knew screaming was not a solution. He knew there was no escape, so he didn’t do anything. He didn’t want anyone to witness an emotional breakdown of the Great Sherlock Holmes. After all, he was still the cold, high-functioning sociopath with no friends.

With bitterness the detective thought of the image he’d kept up for years. Only John Watson had been able to look through all his barricades.

John had changed him, had shown him that maybe, after all, loneliness wasn’t always the best way out. John had shown Sherlock that he was able to maintain a friendship.

The familiar feeling of overwhelming thankfulness swept over Sherlock, thankfulness and sorrow. It burned his body, stimulated every nerve fiber. So much regret stood between them, even when one of them wasn’t here anymore.

“I want to apologize for not telling you how much you mean to me. I relied on my actions to weigh more than my words, but now that I can never say those words without you hearing them, it suddenly doesn’t seem enough.

John, I … I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. You were meant to stay alive, John. I … I … it was my entire fault. I should have paid more attention. I thought there were no risks involved in my – our – new case when I told you about it. I shouldn’t have let you get involved. I am so sorry.”

The tears ran down Sherlock’s face, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore if anyone would see him. John wouldn’t have cared. _Johnjohnjohnjohn._

Is head was spinning; he couldn’t think a clear thought. His mind palace seemed to shift under the weight of Sherlock’s loss, and Sherlock had to scrape together all his concentration to keep the palace standing. He yanked up his hands in desperation and buried them in his hair. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what was supposed to help him. John had always been the one to comfort him. John had always been the one to tell him that, sooner or later, everything would be alright.

A loud scream escaped Sherlock’s throat. _Past. All of it was in past now._

“John,” Sherlock whispered. He almost sank down to his knees, but he could hold back in the last moment.

“I just want a few more minutes with you. Just a few moments we can share before it is all over. That’s all I want.”

He closed his mouth, but in thoughts he continued. _Too much to ask for, it’s too late, you’re too late again, just like you were too late to safe John. You failed. You're a failure. Too late. Never enough. Never._

A continuous stream of words started to cloud his mind palace and started to devastate the order, the whole system. The words subverted the columns of his self-control and sanity and left nothing behind of what had once defined the detective Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock witnessed how he slowly started to destroy himself, how he pushed himself to the edge. He knew he would stumble to the edge inexorably, and he remembered well how it had been the last time he had fallen.

Suddenly Sherlock felt how fear possessed him. Fear of what he was capable of doing to himself when John wasn’t by his side. He gave the grave stone in front of him one last, horrified look and turned to run. At first he ran hesitantly, but soon he ran as if his life depended on it. He didn’t plan on coming back. John had enough people to take care of his grave. Sherlock had never bothered with such things. And John had never needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed John.

A quiet voice in Sherlock whispered that he wanted someone to object, he wanted _John_ to object and to comfort him, and Sherlock knew the voice was right. But he also knew that he couldn’t wait for John; that he had to manage everything without John’s words and presence from now on. And suddenly his whole sanity caught fire. Everything, his sanity, the meaning of carrying on without John, the meaning of life, it all burned to ashes and left nothing behind but a burning emptiness that let Sherlock run even faster. What he didn’t know yet was that he couldn’t escape himself.

 

***

 Mycroft sighed and watched his brother leaving the cemetery. Sherlock’s reaction didn’t surprise him. His brother had shown himself as rather sentimental in the last months, how Mycroft had observed disapprovingly. Now he almost regretted not interfering, even though he knew Sherlock would have found a way to escape Mycroft’s helping hands.

 Mycroft sighed again and started to walk to the car that was standing a few steps away from him, waiting for him. He hoped it wasn’t too late to help Sherlock.

 

***

 

“Hello?” 

“Mr Holmes?” 

Mycroft frowned at the sound of Lestrade’s voice and affirmed.  

 The Detective Inspector didn’t really get to the point at first, and Mycroft’s impatience grew with every second. Just when he wanted to end the call, Lestrade mentioned why he was really calling.

 “Listen, I haven’t heard anything of Sherlock lately, is he alright? I’m worrying.”

 Mycroft inhaled deeply. “John Watson has been dead for three months now. What do you think how Sherlock is doing?” And then, after a moment, “How many new cases do you have, Lestrade? How many cases you can’t solve?”

 There was only silence on the other end.

 “Face the truth, Lestrade; you depended too much on Sherlock Holmes at the end. You got comfortable; you grew accustomed to him doing the work. Understandable. But as you probably know, you weren’t the only one depending on a single person too much. You know what Sherlock was like before he met John. I know you remember. And now you are asking me if Sherlock is alright.

 He hasn’t been at Baker Street in a month. He eats and sleeps less than he even did before. He hasn’t taken a single case since John Watson’s death, and we all can simply assume if and when he will come back to his work.”

 Lestrade cleared his throat. “Do we have to be careful? Could it be that he –“

 “I am keeping an eye on all drug networks, Lestrade. If Sherlock chooses to relapse, I will know about it. But, between you and me, I hardly think this is a probability. Sherlock wouldn’t disappoint John, not even after his death.

 No, he won’t use such simple tools. I know Sherlock doesn’t share my opinion, but I know him well. I know he feels responsible for John’s death. I know he thinks he could have, _should have_ saved him. I think he wants to punish himself. Drugs would be too easy.

 I worry about him, but I can’t do much. I can only watch him. Sherlock has an unnaturally distinct sense of self-destruction. Sherlock believes his mind is the only thing that separates him from others and puts him above everybody else. And he has lost his mind, Lestrade.  You didn’t see him after John’s death, but believe me when I say he’s doing badly even when considered the circumstances.

 We can only hope for the best. Sherlock Holmes may still be an extraordinary man, but he is not the extraordinary man you are looking for. Not anymore. I am sorry.”

 Lestrade needed a few moments to answer. When he spoke, he sounded angry. “So that’s it? You drop him? You don’t even try to help him?”

 “What do you suggest?” Mycroft hissed in a rare moment of loss of self-control. “Tell me what to do, tell me how I am supposed to extinguish the flames that are burning him. Tell me how I am supposed to save my little brother from himself, because I don’t know what to do. I am helpless. I tried, I really did, but I reached my limits. So if you don’t have any suggestions to make, I suggest the phone call ends here. Have a nice day.”

 Mycroft ended the call and threw his phone on the desk violently. He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. He was tired. He couldn’t believe he had lost his temper; he never did. But everything he had said was true. He was desperate. For months he had tried to communicate with his brother now, but his brother had refused all his offers. Not surprising.

 But Mycroft didn’t know what to do anymore. It didn’t happen often that he lost control, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. Especially not when it came to Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock thought he didn’t care about him, but if the younger brother had seen Mycroft now, sitting at the desk, a small tear running down his cheek, then maybe even he would have changed his opinion.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> you have probably noticed, but I'm not a native speaker, so don't judge any stupid mistakes too harshly, ok? Also here's the link to the "original" in German if anyone is interested: http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/53bf0a600002b8892e4d7893/1/Um-Gedankengespenstern-davonzulaufen-braucht-es-mehr-als-ein-Paar-Beine  
> thanks for reading guys, I hope you enjoyed!


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